


Dirty

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Dirty Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Smut, Smut and Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah, I actually learned how to dance like that, like in the film. I was quite the hit at parties while the craze lasted. Some of Harry’s friends called me Johnny Castle, after the character. Or Swayze.”</p><p>“Swayze? What kind of word is that?”</p><p>John did not reply, but gazed at Sherlock, his lips pressed together but still smiling. After a moment, he stood and held out his hand to Sherlock. </p><p>“Dance with me,” John said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

It all happened because it was Thursday.

Thursday evenings were the result of hours of squabbles, sarcasm, and negotiation. While there were many aspects of their lives that were governed and would always be governed by these states of being, particularly now that they were together in every sense of the word, the issue in this instance was music.

Sherlock of course was a lover of classical music – “Except for Mussorgsky, he was a hack, John,” – and while John had learned to appreciate the genre, he required variety in his diet. “I need a break every once and a while,” John had said, after they’d both calmed down after a row over Sherlock snapping off the radio in a snit. “I love you, you git, but I don’t think it’s fair to expect to me to listen to only your taste of music for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock had stared at him carefully. “Is this… one of those relationship… compromise things?”

John had laughed and kissed his forehead until the worried crinkles smoothed out. “Yes, love. Now we figure out a way to compromise. You concede something, I concede something. That’s how it works.”

And so eventually the solution was agreed upon: that on Tuesday and Thursday evenings plus Saturday during the day, barring cases or other urgent issues, John would have his choice of music in the flat. Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays were Sherlock’s choice.

After a couple of weeks and a minor row, this was amended to allow Sherlock to wear headphones or earplugs when John wished to indulge his need to listen to sixties’ progressive rock. Also, inventing cases on John’s days was not on.

This particular Thursday evening it was raining; a clear, steady, cool spring rain washing away the last of the winter slush. There was a fire in the hearth, likely the last fire of the season. Sherlock’s copy of _Forensic Examiner_ had just arrived in the post and he was happily scribbling his corrections in the margins. John was reading a murder mystery in his chair opposite. He was clearly in a nostalgic mood, and tonight had dialled the radio to a station playing what the announcer continuously and annoyingly referred to as ‘golden oldies’. However, the music wasn’t clamorous and not terribly annoying, and Sherlock found himself content to have it in the background.

 _Compromise is not so bad after all_ , thought Sherlock as he underlined “Wrong!” in the journal. _This is… all right_.

A new song came on the radio, and John said, “Oh!”

Sherlock’s head jerked up. He had mostly tuned out the music, but John’s exclamation surprised and puzzled him. It was the same kind of sound he would make when he saw a friend from the army on the street – surprise, mixed with happiness and recognition. There was no one else in the room; besides which, if someone from the army had entered the room without warning, Sherlock doubted John would have made the same kind of noise.

John had raised his head and was looking at the radio, a small smile flickering across his face. Then he looked over at Sherlock and saw his unasked question.

“It’s the song, I haven’t heard it in years,” John said. “It was in a movie that Harry and I used to watch all the time when we were kids. I thought she was watching it for the hunky male lead and she thought I was watching it for the cute girl. Years later I realized we were each watching the opposite person. Well, in my case, I was watching both.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Was that when you began to realize…”

“That I wasn’t one hundred percent straight? Yeah, a bit, I suppose. He really was a hunk. Great dancer, too.”

Sherlock let the journal fall into his lap. “This was a dancing movie? During your rugby years? John, I’m shocked.”

John laughed, light and happy. Most of the time when John was recalling his childhood and teenage years laughter was not involved at all. Sherlock was intrigued.

“Yeah, I actually learned how to dance like that, like in the film. I was quite the hit at parties while the craze lasted. Some of Harry’s friends called me Johnny Castle, after the character. Or Swayze.”

“Swayze? What kind of word is that?”

John did not reply, but gazed at Sherlock, his lips pressed together but still smiling. After a moment, he stood and held out his hand to Sherlock.

“Dance with me,” John said.

Sherlock snorted and picked up his journal again.

“Come on, Sherlock. Curtains are shut, no one will see. Mrs. Hudson’s away.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“For me?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and made a show of putting his book down. “All right, all right,” he said, and stood. “You are _utterly_ ridiculous, John.”

“Yup,” John said amiably. He pushed the chairs back a bit and opened his arms to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped in, then paused to listen to the music. “Hm. Definitely a cha cha. I could probably foxtrot to it, but no one else could. The cha cha beat overrides it.” He held his arms up, taking John’s hand in his, and assuming the formal ballroom stance he hadn’t done since he was a teenager.

“No, not like that, love,” John grinned. “Though we will discuss cha cha and foxtrot at some point in the near future.” John’s smile shifted tone, became darker, more feral. “Like this.”

John’s left hand flexed against the small of Sherlock’s back; the other hand slid across his scapula to his neck, fingers reaching into Sherlock’s hair. Without warning, he pulled Sherlock into his body so quickly the breath was punched out of Sherlock’s belly. The loss of breath, the speed and strength of John’s move, and the sudden intimacy of being nose to nose, lips just a breath apart, cumulated in Sherlock’s near instant arousal. For a moment, he couldn’t inhale, losing himself in John’s eyes.

“Like that,” John murmured against his mouth.

John’s arm curled around Sherlock’s slim waist, pinning him in place against his own body. “Bend your knees a little,” John said softly; Sherlock felt his breath hot against his face. Of course – the height difference. Sherlock obligingly bent, and their knees knocked together. Sherlock flushed a little, feeling suddenly like a coltish pre-teen again, too tall and long-limbed for grace.

“S’all right. A little more. Here.” John shifted, and bracketed his thighs around one of Sherlock’s, their legs slotting together like puzzle pieces. He lifted Sherlock’s arms, lax with surprise, and slung them around his shoulders.

“There. Yes. Relax. Let me show you.”

Sherlock had taken dance lessons as a youth, of course – it was expected of him. Likewise, as the tallest and generally the most precise dancer in the class, it was also expected of him that he would lead. The lead dancer held the power of the dance, directed the movement across the floor. It was that power that Sherlock was accustomed to.

Now he recognized from John’s actions, from his words, that John would be leading. Two years ago he would have fought it, forced his partner to acquiesce to him, or walked away with a scathing comment. But this was John, and one of the things he had learned from John was the joy of occasionally relinquishing power.

He focused on relaxing the muscles of his back, of his legs, of his arms, on shifting control to John’s body. John was leading with his arms, his legs pinning his right thigh; controlling his body in the dance, without force, but through gentle maneuvering. John began to sway to the music, slowly, never breaking his gaze with Sherlock.

“Good,” John said, “more. That’s right.” He gave Sherlock a tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Close your eyes.”

Sherlock obeyed. The dark behind his lids combined with the hypnotic sweep of the music made Sherlock feel a bit dizzy, as though he were floating and only John was tethering him to the earth. He felt John gather him up a little closer still.

_The night we met_

_I knew I needed you so_

_And if I had the chance_

_I’d never let you go_

Sherlock allowed his body to sway in John’s arms, with John increasing the sweep of their bodies as Sherlock’s tension eased. “Good, that’s good,” John whispered against his cheek. “You feel good?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. The sound of his own voice startled him slightly. The sound of the rain, of the traffic on Baker Street had all faded away, and all that existed for him now was the music and the sound of John’s breath.

“Look at me now, love.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and was astonished all over again by the depth and array of colour within John’s eyes: navy, cerulean, azure, and some flecks of unexpected gold when viewed up close. John’s mouth was parted in a slight smile, but his eyes flicked and crackled with humour and arousal and love.

John’s feet were rooted to the floor, his knees relaxed and stable at the same time. He supported Sherlock’s body with his arms, pinning him in against himself, but the motion was directed by his hips. Sherlock felt himself mirroring John’s movements, like a cobra following the gestures of a flute player; hypnotized, in thrall.

“That’s it, my love,” John smiled. “You’re getting it. Want to try something else?”

“What is it?”

“Do you trust me?” John said, drawing Sherlock’s left arm out into a more traditional ballroom position.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

John slowly and deliberately swept Sherlock in a languorous semi-circular dip, supporting him with his legs, strong left arm thrumming with strength, and his right hand pinning him in place at his waistline. Sherlock felt as though he was rooted and floating at once. When John returned him to his starting position, face to face and sharing quickening breath, Sherlock was smiling.

His unfamiliarity and confusion with the dance was suddenly resolved. Up until now he had been intrigued but baffled by John’s movements. To him, dance was mathematics and physics combined – trigonometry made manifest in human form, making its way across the dance floor. The waltz was a parallelogram; the foxtrot rectangular; the tango all right angles. Its linear form was appealing to Sherlock, and his innate understanding of those dances’ root and frame made him a technically proficient dancer.

At first he had thought John’s dance was pure sex, clothed foreplay. It _was_ that, but it wasn’t the vulgar rutting of graceless dogs in heat. Now he understood – the dance celebrated the roll of the hip, the caress of the hand, the swirl of clothing. It wasn’t linear, it was _fractals_ , two fractals working in tandem.

He felt himself light up with discovery, saw John see it in him. He leaned into John’s ear and whispered, “Again.”

John smiled and licked his lips. Sherlock felt the muscles in John’s thighs harden, telegraphing his move and preparing to take Sherlock’s weight.

_Now tell me baby_

_Do you like it like this_

_Tell me_

_Do you love me_

_Now that I can dance?_

Now that he understood, Sherlock was now able to fall fully into the sweep of John’s arms. He felt himself relax into John’s grip, but knew to support his upper body with his own stomach muscles. He was aware of being pinned by John’s legs, his lover’s strong arm grounding him, and yet he was directing his own movement and how far he could bend back.

He felt protected and strong all at once. It was his relationship and connection with John, made manifest in physical movement.

John was smiling as Sherlock completed his sweep and came back up to his eye level. “I knew you’d pick this up quickly, my genius.”

“I’ve a good teacher.”

John hummed his approval, and Sherlock felt the buzz of it the palms of his hands, flat against John’s back, and in his chest. His arousal sharpened. As their bodies brushed together, he could feel John’s response, hard and insistent against his thigh.

Before John, Sherlock’s experience and interpretation of sex had generally been hard and fast, merely a means to an end. The faster he and his partner achieved release, the sooner Sherlock could return to his books, his experiments, his drugs – whatever had caught his attention at the time. Seduction, exploration, leisurely foreplay were not part of his sexual vocabulary.

And then there was John.

The first time they had sex, it was in fact hard and desperate, over in mere minutes. They had waited so long, repressed and hidden their feelings and attraction for too many years, to be patient. They had fallen asleep, satiated with relief and emotional exhaustion, sticky and still half clothed. In the morning, John had reached for him, whispering, “Sh, wait, slow, sh,” against his neck and proceeded to show Sherlock the different thrill of slow sex.

It had taken a long time for Sherlock to adjust, but now he was addicted to it as much as he had been to cocaine. They still had occasional times, usually just after a chase or gunfight, when they indulged in adrenaline-fueled sex, often against the parlour wall with their coats still on. But now - with the rain and the music, and the pulse of muscle and heartbeat - now was not such a time. As much as Sherlock’s old instincts wanted to pull John to the ground _now now now_ and jerk out their orgasms, it be a desecration, a sacrilege to give into that baseness.

So instead of grinding against John’s growing erection, Sherlock brushed carefully against him, their clothes barely touching, and he grazed his lips over John’s brow, and relaxed a little more into John’s arms.

_I just know when I'm in your embrace_

_This world is a happy place_

_And something happens to me_

_There's some kind of wonderful_

He felt the tickle of the tip of John’s nose trailing down his neck, and John’s lips rest against his collarbone. He could feel the shape of John’s smile against his skin.

“So beautiful,” John said, and Sherlock felt the puff of air from the plosives in his words.

“No, you,” Sherlock murmured. “You’ve been hiding your talents from me, John. You must have developed quite the reputation as a teenager.”

John chuckled, quietly. “It did help counteract the downside of being shorter than some of the girls I danced with.”

“At the moment, I’m quite grateful for that.”

“So… you like this?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, realizing that his voice has gone deeper than usual, desire taking control of his larynx.

“Good,” John said. He trailed his hand down Sherlock’s side, hip and leg to his knee, cupping the back of it. He swept Sherlock into a small side dip while pulling Sherlock’s leg up to his hip. Sherlock hummed his pleasure at the feeling of John opening him up, at the change in friction. He felt himself growing more sensitive under his clothes, the expensive wool prickling and making his skin rise up in gooseflesh. He felt his penis fill and harden against John’s hip.

“John,” he whispered, “John, I-”

**“WELL, WASN’T THAT A BLAST FROM THE PAST? I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THAT CLASSIC SONG FROM 1958, THEY JUST DON’T WRITE THEM LIKE THAT ANYMORE, DO THEY? WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK WITH MORE GREAT TUNES RIGHT AFTER THIS MESSAGE FROM-”**

Sherlock flinched, startled and resentful at the radio’s intrusion. The gentle glass bubble of love and closeness had been shattered by the disc jockey’s inane chattering. Without thinking, he reached over and snapped the stereo off with an angry click.

He looked back at John, suddenly worried that his action had angered John – it was a similar action that had started the whole music negotiation debacle. A quick scan showed that John wasn’t angry, to his relief, but rather…

Sherlock felt cold all down his front, where John had so recently been pressed up against him. He felt bereft, awkward. John clearly felt the same, disappointment shrinking him, making him smaller again. John never looked small when he held a gun, or was intimidating someone trying to intimidate him. Sherlock realized that when John had been dancing with him he hadn’t been small then either – he had been tall and strong and confident.

Sherlock wanted that back, he wanted to rebuild the bubble again, be back in John’s arms.

He stepped in close, barely touching John, leaned down close to his perfectly shaped ear and whispered, “More, John. More. _Please_.”

John swallowed audibly, his hands moving instinctively to Sherlock’s waist. “Yeah,” he whispered back. Sherlock drew the tip of his nose against John’s cheek, let John feel his breath against his skin. “Okay,” John murmured, “okay, just… give me a second, and I’ll… okay?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, hearing his voice lower of its own volition. “Okay.”

John closed his eyes for a brief moment, shifted to nuzzle and breathe in between Sherlock’s collar and neck. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut as well, until he felt John shift away. “Just a minute,” John said as he turned to his laptop on the desk. “Let me just…”

Sherlock followed him as though magnetized. He stood just behind John, just close enough to feel his body heat through their clothes. His hands skimmed John’s shoulders and back as he watched John find a music streaming site. He noted that it was a commercial free site, and smiled. “My clever John,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” John said, and clicked play. He turned in Sherlock’s arms as the music started again.

_Stay_

_Just a little bit longer_

_Please please please please_

_Tell me you’re going to_

“Okay?” John said, smiling up at Sherlock.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, stepping back, pulling John with him.

And just like that, the mood was restored. All awkwardness fell away as they stepped into each other’s arms again; Sherlock forgot his peevishness with the disc jockey as though it had never happened. They found their rhythm in the new song, found comfort and security in the moulding together of their bodies.

“Try this,” John said, shifting Sherlock’s hand to splay across the small of his own back. “Hold me there – now-” and John bent backwards, surrendering himself to Sherlock’s strength and support. Sherlock watched, fascinated by the line of John’s chin and neck as he tilted back.

“Now you,” John said as he swept back up, and Sherlock arched back, trusting in John’s hand, firm on his back. He came back up, just in time to feel John shift and bend backwards again. He understood the rhythm, and they took turns, finding the balance in the sway and shift of the movement.

Sherlock took a half step of a wider stance, supporting John’s weight as he went back, following him. He cradled John’s head in the palm of his hand. Instinct led him as he leaned down, and licked slow at John’s suprasternal notch. He felt John moan, the vibration of it against his tongue.

Slowly, slowly, he pulled John back upright, adjusting the bend of his knees so they were more or less at eye level. John licked his lips, the unconscious habit so endearing to Sherlock; Sherlock followed the path of John’s pink tongue with his eyes.

The words fell out of his mouth, but without embarrassment or regret. “I want you, John Watson.”

John looked back at him, solemnly, intensely. “I want you too, Sherlock. I want you all the time.”

“Now?”

“Now,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips, and kissed him.

The kiss was slow, and languorous, soft and wet. Sherlock felt his cock harden with every passing second until he was dizzy with it. His clothes felt heavy and suddenly too tight.

“Please John,” he sighed into John’s mouth.

“Okay, baby, okay,” John whispered back. “Hold on.”

At first Sherlock thought John was going to pull him to the floor, or drag him to the sofa –the closest horizontal surface would suffice. He felt John begin to slide down his body, and assumed that John was going to his knees, going to take Sherlock into his mouth.

 _No_ , he thought, _no, I want to touch you, I don’t want you that far away_ , he was about to say. Then John, the only man on earth that could surprise Sherlock Holmes, lifted Sherlock up into his arms.

John had carried Sherlock before, in a bridal carry or fireman’s lift, only in the context of Sherlock’s being injured or stubborn – never in the context of sex or intimacy. But now John had simply bent his knees, grabbed Sherlock under his haunches and lifted him straight up.

Instinctively Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s waist and his arms around John’s shoulders. He could feel all the muscles in John’s body tensing under Sherlock’s weight, but not shuddering with the effort. The thought of being dropped never entered Sherlock’s mind.

“Bed?” John smiled, casually, as though he had only picked up a heavy book or a bag of groceries.

“Oh God yes.”

John turned and walked towards the bedroom. Sherlock felt himself grow more and more aroused at the feel of the electricity of John’s muscles working. He wanted to kiss John more but worried about distracting him, and so satisfied himself with nuzzling at John’s neck.

_So before the light_

_Hold me again_

_With all of your might_

_In the still of the night_

John walked them down the narrow hallway to their room. Sherlock marvelled at this hitherto unknown proof of John’s physical strength. All of John’s major muscle groups were hard and solid with the effort, but he walked without haste or hesitation. Sherlock could feel John’s hands cupping him around the curve of his arse, felt the pressure of each of his fingers pushing into his flesh, and sighed at the thought of those hands on his bare skin – soon, soon.

John turned into the bedroom and towards the bed. Suddenly they stopped with a jolt, and Sherlock fell onto the bed, bouncing as John stumbled over top of him.

“John-?” he said.

John was giggling, the infectious laugh that Sherlock had become addicted to on their first night. “I’m sorry, sorry, I couldn’t see my feet, I tripped – you okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock laughed up at him. “You?”

“Fine,” he said, a rueful tone entering his voice as he sat up. “So much for that romantic gesture.”

“No, no, it was – it was-” Sherlock looked up at John, at the laugh wrinkles around his eyes, the way his eyes lit up when he smiled. “It was wonderful.”

He realized he could still hear the music from the sitting room, and he pulled John onto the bed and on top of him. He pressed up into John, sinuous against his body, flexing the rhythm of the music against him.

“Dance with me,” he murmured, and pulled John down into a deep kiss.

     _You are here and so am I_

_Maybe millions of people go by_

_But they all disappear from view_

_And I only have eyes for you_

He got lost in the kiss, drowning in the caress of John’s tongue and lips against his. He stroked his hands up and down John’s back, relishing the softness of the cashmere.

“I like this cardigan,” he said.

John grinned. “You gave it to me last Christmas,” he said.

“I know. It brings out your eyes,” Sherlock said. “Now, take it off, please.”

John laughed, sat back and peeled off the cardigan, throwing it at the chair in the corner of the room. They reached for each other’s buttons at the same time.

“Remember the first time, Sherlock?”

Sherlock chuckled softly in remembrance. Their first time they had been clumsy with lust and long-repressed emotion, and had fumbled with each other’s shirts for far too long. Sherlock had at last lost patience and pulled hard at John’s shirt. They had later found one of John’s buttons stuck to the skin on his back.

They were more practiced at undressing each other now. Sherlock thought that it was the one thing on earth that would never bore him, should he live to be a hundred: the sight of John Watson’s clothing parting, and the revelation of his skin underneath.

John’s body was an endless source of fascination and information. Sherlock had spent hours memorizing every freckle and mole, the different shades of his skin, the peak and valleys of his musculature. Of particular interest was the bullet scar, five diametric centimetres of anarchic chaos on John’s body. Sherlock never could keep his fingers and tongue away from it, tracing the whorl of scar tissue that had caused John so much pain but had brought him back to England, brought him eventually to Sherlock’s side.

John was stroking Sherlock’s limbs, smoothing his hands along the span of his arms, his legs, his torso, his cock. Sherlock made a mental note to share with John his observations about the dance, about the linear versus the fractal forms, but later, later. For now he arched and shivered under John’s hand, and began to draw fractals on John’s body. He used the tip of his tongue to outline an ever shrinking spiral around John’s nipple, watching with fascination as the erectile tissue peaked and stiffened.

“Sherlock, God, Sherlock,” John said, shivering. “You’re so – that feels – oh God-”

Hearing John lose his ability to speak sharpened Sherlock’s arousal, and he reached for the bedside table. He found what he wanted, and pressed the bottle of lube into John’s hand. “Please, John,” he murmured, “please.”

He closed his eyes, lay back, and listened for the tiny sounds of preparation: the click of the bottle’s lid, the squeak of the liquid pouring onto John’s fingers (slim, delicate, strong fingers), the rub of bedsheets against John’s skin as he shifted down the bed. He held his breath as John’s middle finger breached him, then released it in a controlled rush as John pressed in. He marvelled that John knew his body so well, knew when to push, when to retreat and let his body adjust, when to add another finger, when Sherlock needed more lube. Sherlock relaxed into the pleasure of it, musing that John was continuing the dance, only inside his body.

He reached down and gently pulled John’s hand away. Then he used a burst of speed and movement to turn John onto his back and straddle his cock.

“My turn,” he said, smiling at John’s startled but aroused expression. “My turn to lead.”

He lined up John’s cock and allowed his weight to sink down, pulling John deep inside himself.

When he was fully seated, he paused, closing his eyes against the riot of pleasure and fullness and the rapidly fading pain. He was distantly aware of John’s hands stroking the long muscles of his thighs, soothing him. He took John’s hands into his own, gathered them up like wounded birds to his mouth, and kissed his knuckles and fingertips as his body adjusted.

“So beautiful,” John whispered.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and was struck by the look of adoration and love on John’s face. Sherlock was still astonished that anyone would ever look at him like that, much less such a man as John.

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock murmured back to John, and began to move.

     _Are the stars out tonight_

_I don't know if it's cloudy or bright_

_I only have eyes for you_

When John was inside him like this, it felt so good and so right – better than any drug he had taken, better than any brilliant deduction, better than any foot chase and capture of a criminal. He dreamily wondered why he had chosen celibacy for so many years, and the answer came back to him quickly: because he hadn’t met John yet. It was only John that could do this for him, take him outside his mind for a time, and make him relish every moment and every sensation.

“Only you,” Sherlock said, his inner thoughts spilling out of his lips.

“Yes,” John said, and Sherlock again marvelled that John understood. “Only you. Always.”

Sherlock smiled, and slowly, slowly raised his body as high as he could, and slowly, slowly pressed down again. He felt sparks flare along his nervous system, beginning at the core of himself and ricocheting down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He did it again, and he and John groaned in tandem.

“I’m not going to last long, God, Sherlock, so good,” John panted. He pressed his palm into Sherlock’s belly, and gripped Sherlock’s hip with his other hand. The opposing pressures tipped Sherlock’s body back slightly, changing the tilt and angle of John’s cock inside him. John bent his knees, and Sherlock let his back rest against John’s strong thighs. “Good, good,” John said, and thrust up into Sherlock in tandem with Sherlock’s push down into John’s hips.

Sherlock felt a flush spread from his chest upward into his face, and downward to his belly. Warmth and electricity rushed through his body, and he felt his own cock swell and twitch. He felt John’s cock thicken inside him, or was it his muscles tightening around him? “John,” he said, his voice breaking, and wonderful, clever John understood, and took hold of Sherlock’s cock, stroking it, pulling on it, rubbing his thumb over the crown –

“Oh, Sher – oh-”

Sherlock fell into his orgasm, softly, like falling into water, with a sigh. He let it break over his head, drown him, as he felt John spill deep inside him.

When he came back to himself, it was slowly, piece by piece. When his brain finally achieved full awareness, he was curled up against John’s side, his head resting on John’s heaving chest.

“Incredible, you are,” John said, gulping for breath.

“As are you,” Sherlock said, kissing and licking the sweat from John’s scar in his shoulder.

“That was lovely.”

“Mmm, yes,” Sherlock said, already feeling the pull of sleep on his limbs and eyelids. “Definitely worth repeating.”

“No arguments here,” John said, and Sherlock could feel him smiling against the crown of his head. “Though I do want to continue our discussion about the foxtrot at another time.”

“Done,” Sherlock said, and closed his eyes.

     _Oh, what a night to love you dear_

_Oh, what a night to want you dear_

_Oh what a night to kiss you dear_

_That's why I love you so_

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Songs quoted:
> 
> Be My Baby - The Ronettes  
> Do You Love Me - The Counters  
> Some Kind of Wonderful - The Drifters  
> Stay - Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs  
> In the Still of the Night - The Five Satins  
> I Only Have Eyes for You - The Flamingos  
> Oh What a Night - The Dells
> 
> Thanks to Ms Spitfire, who really said to me, "I could probably foxtrot to it, but no one else could."
> 
> I found out after I started writing this that Mazarin221b is doing a crossover Sherlock/Dirty Dancing WIP called "You're the One". Go check it out!


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